If you're reading this, I'm probably dead already. And if you even know this memorandum exists — I'm addressing Robinson, Rodriguez, and Hooper here — you better pray that you're packing the wherewithal to pierce the hide of an ornery Blue Bird Vision and some saxitoxin aspirins. (Telly and Mumford were inside-out when we found them last week. They were still breathing.)

If you're below my clearance level — and our orbital array has yet to bless our planet with the ambience of a chemical toilet — my words may be of some use to you. I've outlined the locations of our storehouses in the attached diagram — I've convinced the General Vendredi of the autonomous region of Faux-Semblants to hide the bunker busters. Yes, I know dealing with his junta fists every UN regulation on the book, but taking down the Subject won't be a field trip. This mission will be made possible by motherfuckers like you.

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Here's what we do know. The Subject first appeared during the Reagan administration at Walkerville Elementary School in the bucolic hamlet of Podunk-on-Bumblefuck. (I've never been good with geography. Surely you remember 1985?) As we belatedly discovered, the Subject lacked a birth certificate, social security number, fingerprints, heat signature, pheromonal output, and reflection. All it needed was a degree from Columbia Teachers College scrawled on a diner napkin and a school board with a surprisingly pernicious mescaline habit.

Once situated, the Subject was charged with two-dozen eight-year-old acolytes. (NOTE: we do not refer to them as "children," as they have not aged in 27 years. At best, they are lobotomized meat husks.) Within days, local law enforcement vanished and the town disappeared from every atlas on record. Smiley, Dawn, and The Romanian went to investigate a week later. His last transmission — "Three! Three bleached human skulls! Futu-i, THREE BLEACHED HU—"

Before we quarantined the town entirely, we managed to sneak the Garbage Man in deep cover. We thought he died years ago, but that guy's a fucking animal. The top brass at Operation Der Geisterhafte Schriftsteller intercepted the transmission at left three days ago, using their Drei-Zwei-Eins Kontaktmaschine. The Garbage Man is still kicking — I swear that bastard has the metabolism of a potato sack. Watch this footage at your own discretion. It's absolutely unconscionable. I vomited nine times, which reminded me of my mother.

So yes, we still have no idea what the Subject is. Some genus of Doozer death-god? One of Buns' genetic chimeras loose in the wild? A cosmic abomination from beyond the Rainbow Connection? For the past two decades, we've left the Subject to its own little cornfield kingdom, but as of late, it's been making incursions into the Amazon and the far reaches of the Solar System.

We're losing folks by the day. Beaks recently spotted S.G.'s limp corpse orbiting Saturn — his cords had been cut. Who knows what other "lessons" the Subject has planned for us? Maybe some scheme to reveal the grand puppetmasters behind our universe? To that I say "Fat chance — fat fucking chance."

So here's what I'm going to do — finish typing this, down this pint of rotgut, and me and the Roommates are going to show those freaks how we did it on the street. And if we don't come back, pass this letter on to Radar and Duckie — those guys are natural leaders, after all — and tell Snuffs I'll see him on the other side.